Filthy
by Merina 2
Summary: Glinda considers just what exactly her fiancé and the Wicked Witch of the West got up to in that forest together, allowing jealousy to rear its ugly head afresh at the worst possible time. Gelphie friendship/hate, mild Fiyeraba, mild Flinda/Gliyero. Drabble, mid-catfight scene.


**I know this one's been done a thousand times before, but I guess I couldn't resist. It's such a painful, brilliant thought. And jealous!Glinda is both tragic and fascinating to explore. This begins mid-Catfight scene, just after the following quote...**

* * *

_"So I would appreciate some time alone, to say goodbye to my sister!"_

* * *

Glinda swallowed. Drew in a breath. Bent her head in submission; acceptance, of the witch's request. Witch. _Witch. _The word tasted sour on her tongue, even now. Even after everything _she _had done – everything she had ruined – everything she had taken –

– Glinda shook her head, dispelling the thoughts; muddying them, before the jealousy could catch her in its steely, white-hot fingers once more. Her knuckles clenched tight around the not-quite-wand that was her constant companion. She would try – try – _try _not to hate the witch – not to hate _Elphaba _– not when she had lost so much. She would let Elphaba have her moment…

A dull _thud _sounded from the direction of the fallen house. Glinda started, awoken from her thoughts.

"Elphie…?"

She turned, and her eyes sought Elphaba's black-swathed, bone-thin form as it fell to its knees before the little cottage, dark mane of hair swinging over her shoulders as she bent her head in a private show of solemn grief. Her eyes closed; coarse, jet-black eyebrows furrowed with the intensity of thought.

Glinda felt a sudden, squirming desire to join her on the ground – to comfort her friend, as she might once have. But that was all was over – and had been over, for so many years, now…

_…Sweet Oz, _the w – _Elphaba_ – was a mess. Her features struggled under thin veil of composure; colour stood in blotchy patches on her cheeks, her eyes bloodshot, darting and unfocussed. There was a wild, feral look in them; a look Glinda knew could send villages screaming before, and sweet Oz, now she knew why. The eyes of one near-crazed with grief. The eyes of one close to breaking point. The eyes of one who had lost more than Glinda could ever comprehend…

…o_h Elphie._

Glinda's feet shuffled forward a step or two, in spite of themselves. Elphaba made no response; simply ducking her head a little lower, all that thick, tumbling hair hiding her face from view as Glinda approached; oh-so-tentative, oh-so-slow. How long her hair had grown, Glinda noted with a small, sad half-smile at the errant thought so like her old self. Even as it was, in such garish disarray, tangled with filth and knotted with twigs and leaves and dusted with earth…earth…

…but…that made no sense. Glinda blinked; stopped short with confusion, because that made no sense, no sense at all. She could understand twigs and leaves getting caught up whilst Elphaba flew amongst the trees, of course, but the earth? Unless of course, she had been sleeping on the bare forest floor. But still, that didn't explain the utter tragedy her hair resembled, if she had simply laid her head down to rest. She would have had to have been rolling around, at the very least, twisting and flailing on the ground, writhing with…with…

…with…

…_no…_

…they wouldn't…

…_they wouldn't…_

…they hadn't…

…_hadn't…_

_…_but the thought had already gnawed its way into her and now, it was too late. Glinda began to notice other errant little details about Elphie – how haphazardly her dress sat about her gaunt frame, missing the odd button, as though it had been ripped off in a great hurry, a tearing rush…

_…a long-suppressed passion…?_

Glinda found that, quite suddenly, she couldn't quite swallow. A foul, cloying taste seemed to be rising up her throat and she choked it down, a shudder trembling through her whole body. She was going to be sick – oh sweet Oz, she was going to be sick – and _they had, _stung the jealousy, hot and boiling in the pit of her stomach. _They_ _had. _And on a filthy forest floor, of all places, no engagement or marriage or even _bed _to speak of. She wanted to sob. Scream. Slap her across the face.

How many times had she longed for that with him? How many times had he denied her, _her, _in all her glory, full of unfailing excuses about how he truly thought they should wait for marriage, that he wanted it to be traditional and proper and in-keeping with her family's expectations, using it as the weapon against her advances, saying no to her again and again and again…

…sobs swelled in her throat and lodged there; tears welling till she could hardly see straight. She squeezed her lids tight shut against them, nails sharp against her palms as her fists clenched.

_Elphie's fault, Elphie's fault, _sneered the jealousy rearing its triumphant, ugly head deep inside her. _Elphie, in all her_ _black-swathed, bone-thin glory. Elphie, with her bloodshot eyes and blotchy cheeks. Elphie, with that wild, feral look that sent villages screaming before her. Ugly Elphie. Dangerous Elphie. Filthy, filthy, filthy Elphie…_

Glinda had never hated the witch so much.


End file.
